


Promises, Kept and Broken

by Maeniac



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Camping, Eventual Romance, Fairy Tale Curses, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeniac/pseuds/Maeniac
Summary: Imagine a story where the beloved prince of Moominvalley was cursed by a cruel sorcerer, and now lives in isolation at the top of a tall tower, guarded by a fearsome creature that only shows itself once the sun sets.The prince is never freed from his tower.This tale comes close to fading into legend, descriptions of the terrible beast and the handsome prince growing more fantastical with each retelling. By the time Snufkin hears of it, the beast is at least the size of a barn, with fangs dripping acid and wicked sharp claws. The prince, in turn, is of such pure heart, that he can commune with even the most skittish of animals.Snufkin is no righteous knight, nor clever royal, nor roaming champion; but he is curious. And there is very little that will stop him until his curiosity is satisfied.





	1. Rumours on the Road

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in the Moomins fandom!! I've been watching the 90s anime for a little while now and consuming tons of Moomins fan-content, and I thought I'd contribute as well! I can't promise an update schedule but I am very excited to write this!!

Imagine a story where the beloved prince of Moominvalley was cursed by a cruel sorcerer, and now lives in isolation at the top of a tall tower, guarded by a fearsome creature that only shows itself once the sun sets. For a time, there were brave souls – righteous knights, clever royals and roaming champions – marching by the dozen to slay the beast and free the prince. Yet none succeeded, and such times have long since passed.

The prince is never freed from his tower.

This tale comes close to fading into legend, descriptions of the terrible beast and the handsome prince growing more fantastical with each retelling. By the time Snufkin hears of it, the beast is at least the size of a barn, with fangs dripping acid and wicked sharp claws. The prince, in turn, is of such pure heart, that he can commune with even the most skittish of animals.

Why no one else seems to find the hole in that, Snufkin can’t fathom.

Still, the tale catches his interest. His recent arrival in Moominvalley has brought pleasant days, but nothing this exciting. Despite having travelled for many years now, he has yet to meet such a fearsome creature or noble prince. If nothing else, he can always create his own spin on the story.

Snufkin is no righteous knight, nor clever royal, nor roaming champion; but he _is_ curious. And there is very little that will stop him until his curiosity is satisfied.

 

* * *

 

  
There are plenty of things to slow him down, however. Information, for example – or rather, a distinct lack of it.

He dares spend a few nights in a tavern, making conversation with the locals. It’s a bustling and lively place, full of all sorts of odd folks and creatures, half of which are likely to burst into raucous singing at any moment. Snufkin does his best to find himself a spot just secluded enough to shelter him from the especially rowdy patrons, but does not discourage the more sure-footed ones. Sure enough, a few join him at his table. They ask about his travels (for it is clear that he is a wanderer) and in turn he asks about the rumours surrounding the prince’s curse.

There’s a reason it takes more than one night – no one seems to know for certain what exactly the prince’s curse is. Some say that if he speaks, poisonous toads and snakes fall from his lips in place of words. Others tell of a prince, whose very touch turned any object to solid gold, forced into hiding to protect from kidnappers. More still say he was cursed to never find true love, and in his grief, the prince fled from all company and isolated himself in the furthest corner of the Earth.

While the circumstances of the curse remain inscrutable, the location of the tower is not. It’s far away, at the very fringes of the Valley and on a seldom-trodden path, but that’s never bothered Snufkin. He’s even able to hitch a ride part of the way there from a travelling merchant – a Hemulin – with room in his wagon of botanical specimens for a wanderer like him.

Snufkin stays up a while longer confirming the details of his passage, before dragging himself upstairs to his room and crashing into bed. He’s out before his head hits the pillow.

It’ll be the last night he sleeps in a bed for quite some time. (Not that he minds.)

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he wakes bright and early, his few belongings tucked neatly away inside his pack. Fog still lingers upon the hills as they leave the village behind. Snufkin doesn’t trouble himself with looking back. He stares upwards instead, sprawled between planters with his pack beneath his head, watching the sky lighten to a clear blue as the day begins in earnest.

It’s a lengthy journey North. Lunch is taken as the wagon continues to jostle its way down the road, sharing bread and cheese and slices of dried fruit between careful hands and paws. Sometimes there are questions asked and answers given. Otherwise, Hemulin is content to let the silences be, and so is Snufkin. In this way, the first day passes uneventfully. The night equally so, with Snufkin insisting that the Hemulin rest in his cart while the mumrik pitches his tent.

The rest of the journey is much the same. Sometimes, there are other travellers along the road, but those dwindle the further North they go. More often than not, Snufkin fills the silence of the road with song. The journey has provided him with some excellent new material, though he has yet to give them any titles.

Once, an overnight storm forced the two of them to huddle in the Hemulin’s cart, the ground too slick with mud and rainwater to set up camp. Snufkin remembers crawling out from under the tarp once he realized the rain had stopped, just in time to catch the first rays of light peeking over the mountaintop.

In all this time, however, there has been a question left unasked. Snufkin can tell from the way the Hemulin glances at him, as if to speak, starting and stopping without ever quite getting anywhere. But whenever Snufkin tries to inquire, he always waves the mumrik off.

It’s on the last day of their shared travels that the Hemulin finally decides to ask.

“I understand you’re a bit of a wanderer,” he begins, not looking away from his steering. It’s not a particularly difficult road, the mumrik notes, but sometimes people feel better when feigning nonchalance.

“That I am,” Snufkin replies, since it seems the Hemulin doesn’t know where to go from there.

“But – tell me – what draws you to this particular destination? I mean, surely you’ve heard the stories?” A glance back over his shoulder.

 _Ah_ , he thinks, _here it is_. Aloud, Snufkin asks, “Are you talking about the creature?”

“About the beast, yes,” Hemulin confirms with a nod. “ I’ve travelled this road before, you know, and there’s a cozy little inn about half a day’s journey from where the tower is supposed to be – never been that way myself, of course,” he assures Snufkin, “what with all the terrible rumours. But you should know that there were others in that inn, who _had_ gone to the tower and seen the beast for themselves!” His voice grows more enthusiastic, as all good storytellers do, descriptions painting vivid pictures in the clear morning air. “They said it was a great, snarling thing, as black as night and with eyes like burning blue fire. And very aggressive, too, they said, very territorial – why, they barely escaped with their lives!” Shaking his head, he finishes, sparing another glance back to where Snufkin sits, “So, knowing all this, why on earth would you want to go?”

Snufkin hums thoughtfully for a moment. “I guess you could say I’m curious,” he explains eventually. “I can hardly believe something unless I see it with my own eyes, now can I?”

The Hemulin turns away with a sigh. “Well, I doubt that anything I can say will stop you – not if you’ve already come this far – but will you at least heed me on one thing?”

Snufkin isn’t particularly fond of following other people’s rules, but the Hemulin has done him a great favour, so he decides to hear him out. And besides, he’s a little curious to know what foreboding wisdom the merchant wishes to share with him.

“What is it?”

“There’s a little plot of land dedicated to a garden surrounding the tower. Whatever you do, don’t camp within its walls.”

The mumrik considers this for another moment, then shrugs. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“Good man,” the Hemulin says with a decisive nod.

And that’s the last they speak until it comes time to part ways.


	2. A Locked Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer (and also took longer than I expected) because I Could Not Shut Up About Scenery but the good news is that we're getting into the thick of things starting now! I hope you guys enjoy and feel free to leave a comment or even an ask on tumblr @kamikazedandelion!

“You remember what I told you?”

Snufkin doesn’t bother looking up from tightening straps, checking to make sure everything is nice and secured. “Of course.”

“And you have everything you need?”

“Always,” he replies, shouldering his pack with a grin.

The Hemulin raises his hand in farewell. “Then safe travels to you, my friend.”

Snufkin nods. “And to you, as well.”

And with that, the Hemulin trundles off on his cart once more. He waits until the sounds fade into silence.

Snufkin turns back to the forest, sets his sights firmly on the barren path, and begins his hike.

It’s a nice forest, thick with pine trees, their fallen needles softening the sounds of Snufkin’s boots upon the earth. He could hear bird calls unlike any other he’s heard before, and amuses himself by whistling back at them in turn. The sun climbs higher in the sky. He takes a break around midday, splashing water from his canteen on his face and the back of his neck. Closing his eyes, Snufkin basks in this moment.

A good hike through the woods always makes him feel most alive. Heart pumping steadily and blood singing, feet aching and muscles stretching, water soaking into the collar of his shirt and dripping off his chin. The scent of pine sap and growing things is everywhere. He inhales through his nose until his lungs are full, then lets it out in a great sigh.

Onwards again, towards adventure and mystery.

 

* * *

  
At last, he reaches his destination, later in the afternoon than he would have liked, but there none the less.

At the crest of the hill, a circle of trees has been cleared away, and from the bare soil rises the tower. Its white stone bricks reflect the sunlight like a beacon. Despite the glare, it’s plain to see that it isn’t all perfectly pristine. Pockmarks and grooves born from weathering have etched themselves into the bricks. Creeping up from the forest floor, mosses and lichens bloom across the surface. He thinks he can spy a window near the roof, sunken in and shielded from the sun. And just like the Hemulin said, there’s a wall running all the way around. It’s much shorter than the tower, but tall enough to conceal what likely is the garden inside.

This would all be perfectly normal – if it weren’t also astonishingly silent.

He hasn’t heard a single chirp or rustle in the bushes for some time now. The only sound comes from the ground under his boots, and his own steady breathing.

A quick trot around the perimeter reveals a wide wrought-iron fence. Feeling spiteful, Snufkin doesn’t bother checking to see if it’ll open to him, and simply climbs over the top. He grins sharply as he lands, even though there’s no one around to see it.

Making his way along the path of stepping stones, he takes in his new surroundings.

The garden is densely-packed, beds crammed close together and practically spilling into one another. He can recognize carrots and other root vegetables laid out in uneven rows; pumpkin and squash vines sprawled out in looping tendrils; sprigs of herbs all sprouting from one long planter. Oddly enough, there’s only one flower bed. He crouches down to inspect it closer and finds a border of chunky seashells, their pearlescent surfaces reflecting the colourful blooms. It makes him smile. And everywhere he looks there are dandelions – they grow in corners, and from cracks in the path, and even alongside the vegetables.

The whole thing gives him the impression of being – not quite _abandoned_ , but – clumsily attended-to. Still, that provides a small comfort. Someone must be around to have taken care of these plants.

(Is that why the Hemulin told him not to make his camp here, to prevent him from offending its keeper?)

When there’s nothing else to look at, he approaches the tower. Entering the cool stone interior sends Snufkin’s hair prickling on end. All of a sudden, the walls feel too close, the air too still. He does his best to shrug off the feeling, ignoring the way his tail wants to flick in agitation.

Up the ever-spiralling staircase, he soldiers on, legs aching from the strain by the time he reaches the final landing at the top.

Met with only a modest wooden door and _still_ nothing resembling a beast or a prince, Snufkin can’t help but wonder if he’s been following a ghost story. If the only thing keeping people away from here are empty rooms and bad memories.

He tries the door handle anyways. It’s locked. (Of course, it’s locked).

_I could turn back now_ , he thinks. _I’ve found the tower and explored within its walls. But_ – He looks to the door – _At the very least, I want to see what’s in that room. I haven’t quite tried everything, just yet._

So, with a mental shrug, he knocks politely and asks, “Hello? Is anyone in there?”

And it’s to his immense surprise that, after a moment, he hears a voice on the other side answer back, “G-go away!”

He blinks, words lost in his mouth for a solid beat.

“… Sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know if there is a prince that lives around here?”

“Prince? What prince? There _is_ no prince.”

“There’s not? That’s a pity,” he says, idly scuffing the ground with his boot, paws tucked away inside his pockets. “I was hoping to speak with him.”

The voice continues, growing haughty, “Well, your prince must be in a different tower, so – I suggest you move along, now.”

“And who might you be?” Snufkin asks.

“I’m nobody,” the voice declares.

He can’t help but find that a little amusing, though he does his best to hide it. It’s simply not polite. His tail flicks behind him as he points out, “Nobody can be nobody, you know. Everybody is always _some_ body.”

“Well, I’m a somebody who’s not important! You’re just wasting your time.”

“Are you not curious about what sort of somebody I am?” he wonders.

Not missing a beat, the voice replies, “I can tell you’re a rather _bothersome_ somebody.”

Snufkin’s composure finally breaks, and he has to hide his chuckles in his paws. It can’t be helped that he finds this whole conversation terribly funny. He does his best to reign it in, though a bit of a tremor still creeps into his words and there’s nothing to be done for his smile.

“Sorry, sorry – I suppose I _have_ been asking an awful lot of questions. Would you mind terribly if I asked one more?”

“You just did,” the voice points out.

Snufkin’s smile doesn’t abate. “Not including that one.”

An exasperated sigh comes through the door. “Fine, fine, I can’t exactly stop you.”

_Alright, enough fooling around_ , Snufkin thinks. _Wouldn’t want to impose any more than I already have._

“Do you know a good camping spot in this area? It’s already quite late in the day, and I’m afraid my ride is long gone,” he explains, a touch sheepish.

“Oh dear!” the voice exclaims immediately. “You poor thing – hang on, let me think.”

Snufkin waits in silence. He’s not quite sure what to make of this person. On the one hand, they were insistent on having him leave earlier, but on the other hand, they seemed keen to help him out now. It’s not long before his line of thinking is interrupted.

“Did you see the stream on your way here?”

“I did.”

“Right,” the voice begins. “So, if you walk straight South-West of here, you should come across it again soon enough. Follow it downstream for a few minutes until it widens out into a pond – that’s your spot. You got all that?”

Snufkin makes a quick mental note of the directions, then nods. He only realizes belatedly that this person can’t see him. “Yes, I doubt I’ll have too much trouble finding it. Thank your for your assistance.”

“You’re welcome!” the voice says cheerily, before rushing out with, “I mean – good bye!”

The mumrik blinks, nonplussed. “‘Evening,” he bids, and then goes on his way.

 

* * *

   
The voice’s directions lead him to a quaint little spot, sheltered on one side by a rocky overhang carpeted in green. In its shadow, he finds the leftover coals from some long-extinguished campfire. The stream pools in a wide stone basin, still enough to reflect the slowly-darkening sky above him, before running further on downhill. Thick, leafy trees dot the surrounding area. He pats one of the trunks and finds it to be sturdy and strong. It’ll provide ample support for his tent.

Snufkin eyes the sun’s position one more time, and then gets to work.

Setting up his camp is a comforting routine, long-since memorised from when he was but a little boy. Raise his tent, toss in his sleeping bag, refill his canteen, collect fallen timber, coax a fire to life. It’s all predictably monotonous, and in that way it soothes him. Snufkin imagines it’s a similar feeling to coming home, for those who have a permanent place of residence.

As he works, his mind is occupied solely with what needs to be done in the present. But once his routine comes to an end, he finds himself pondering the future. It’s no question that he’s staying tonight, but what about tomorrow? Will he leave right away, or linger longer? He supposes the answer depends on if there’s anything worth staying for.

People often consider him directionless – what with the way he wanders – but that’s simply not true. That he wanders is no question, but he’s always headed _towards_ something. Be it a glorious mountain range or a farmer’s market selling unique tropical fruits. He’s always searching for some new adventure.

It’s times like these, however, where Snufkin feels unsure about his direction, and so he turns to his tarot deck.

While he’s waiting for dinner to cook, he thinks on the events of the day and the voice he spoke with, shuffling idly. It’s a battered old thing, the finely painted images yellowed with age, corners dog-eared and worn from years of handling. On a whim, he closes his eyes, allowing himself to think on his question without quite putting it into words. Then, he pulls three cards.

Turning them over one by one reveals the Hanged Man, the Hermit and Temperance. He considers them for a long time, until finally –

_If I see the beast that was spoken of, I’ll stay another night_ , he decides. And then this decision is mentally set aside in favour of his meal, and the warm satisfaction that comes with food. For a time, it is forgotten, but not very long.

 

* * *

   
The first time Snufkin catches a glimpse of the so-called beast happens that very night. He’s taking a little late-night stroll through the woods surrounding the tower, enjoying the gentle breeze and starry night sky. Then something on the path ahead shifts suddenly.

Snufkin stops. He waits in silence for a tense minute, and then a low, rumbling growl picks up. Even with his night vision, the creature is too well concealed for him to make out the shape clearly. From what little he can tell, it’s alarmingly big – not to the exaggerated extent that he heard in rumours, but certainly bigger than he was expecting – and its burning eyes bore into his.

There’s one thing the stories got right: the eyes are a bright and intense blue, like the hottest part of an open flame. It’s an utterly unforgettable sight, seared into his memory.

Snufkin raises his palms and freezes when the creature stomps its front paws on the ground. The growl gives way to harsh snorts and the clacking of teeth. _Slow_ , he reminds himself, _slow movements_. He begins backing away, taking great care not to move too suddenly. The noise gradually begins to recede.

He continues for a long time, one foot after another, gazes locked with the creature. It never blinks.

“I’ve no interest in bothering you,” he whispers, just before the creature is out of sight. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

He takes one more step back, stumbling a little over the uneven ground. His eyes glance down to check his footing for just a moment. When Snufkin looks back, the creature is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarot Card Meanings:
> 
> The Hanged Man - martyrdom, surrender, reversal, new perspectives.  
> The Hermit - hidden knowledge, humility, introspection.  
> Temperance - patience, moderation, purpose, optimism.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!! Comments and kudos will help motivate me to continue writing!


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